Savich realized he’d thought Pierre Barbeau a strong suspect in the attempts on MacLean’s life, but not now, not after meeting him, watching him, listening to him. This man looked shattered, he looked ready to bury himself in his misery.

MacLean was right. If anyone in this family was trying to off him, it was Estelle Barbeau. Her grief was as great and as consuming as her husband’s, but there was violence and promise in her eyes. She said, her voice calmer now, more conciliatory, “This is very painful for us, Agent Savich. I do not know why you wish to dredge it up. My husband told you we had nothing to do with any attempts on Dr. MacLean’s life. So what is your point? What do you want? Our son is dead, he is beyond your silly American laws.”

“Silly?” Sherlock couldn’t help herself, she lost it. “I wonder how silly you would consider our laws if a terrorist group blew up the Eiffel Tower.”

Estelle flipped her hand. “But such a thing would not happen. We live in peace with our Muslim countrymen.”

Now that was a claim that wouldn’t bear scrutiny.

Savich took a breath and said, “Mrs. Barbeau, if you would please give us your whereabouts on these two dates.” He looked down at his notebook to confirm the dates when Estelle rode right over him. “Our son is beyond any pain you would inflict upon him for his youthful lapse in judgment. He was a boy, only a boy, an idealist, and a woman trapped him. An old story, to be sure, a tried-and-true one that will happen again and again. Jean David is dead. Let him and his name rest in peace. I hope Dr. MacLean dies. He should die, but neither of us is responsible for any attempts on his worthless life. How many times must we tell you that?”

Savich said, “The most recent attempt put him in the hospital.”

Pierre looked bewildered, Savich thought, no mistaking it. “You honestly believe that Estelle or I would try to kill Tim—Dr. MacLean? That is nonsense, absolute nonsense. Yes, we blame him for Jean David’s death, but to actually try three times to kill him? That is absurd. Your FBI is absurd.”

Sherlock said, “On the contrary, it makes a great deal of sense, sir. There is your belief that he is responsible and there is revenge. And what would happen if Dr. MacLean decided to go public with your son’s activities?

“If this became known, would you still be received at embassy functions here in Washington? In New York? What about your job here?

“Indeed, sir, I can’t imagine you could have happily continued your career with the French National Police. Tell me, sir, did you imagine what it would be like to return to France to face your family and friends, all of them knowing what your son did? Could you imagine bearing that? Could you imagine your wife bearing that?”

It was too much, and Sherlock wanted to kick herself. If they were innocent, she had caused needless pain for these grieving parents.

Estelle waved a fist at them, the diamonds glittering madly off a huge ring on her right hand. “You listen to me. What our son did or did not do, none of it is important any longer. Jean David is dead, do you hear me? He is dead! All his thoughts, his deeds, his beliefs dead, drowned in a tragic accident—your damned Coast Guard couldn’t even find him! And none of it would have happened if Dr. MacLean had kept quiet, as a doctor is supposed to do.

“Let me tell you, doctors in France are discreet, they do not preach. They do not make threats or issue ultimatums! But here? Obviously nothing is sacred here. The ethics of your American doctors, well, they have none, their behavior is inexcusable.”

THIRTY-SIX

Someone found out that Timothy had spoken to his friend Arthur Dolan, and Dolan conveniently died. A coincidence? Savich didn’t believe in coincidence. But how could the Barbeaus have found out about it?

He said, “You are right that Dr. MacLean spoke to several people about your son. Are either of you interested in knowing why Dr. MacLean betrayed your confidence?” Savich studied their faces as he spoke. Estelle’s face was frozen in rage; Pierre looked like he didn’t care, only wanted the earth to open up beneath his feet so he could slip away.

Estelle said, “We are not interested in any paltry excuses. The man is an abomination. We want you to leave now. We have nothing more to say.” She jumped to her feet. Her husband, however, remained seated, rolling the Diet Coke can between his hands.

Savich said, “The last attempt on Dr. MacLean’s life was a bomb placed on board a plane. He survived, barely.”

Estelle shrugged. “What is this? A bomb? We know nothing of any bomb. We do not care what happens to him.” She picked up a framed photo from a side table and waved it in front of their faces. “This is our son. This is Jean David. An elegant, brilliant boy, good, so very good. Look at him! He will never grow older, he will never have a wife and children.”

He was indeed a handsome man, Sherlock thought, studying the photo. Dark hair, deeply tanned, his smile beguiling and utterly charming, his father’s dark eyes shining out of his face. Such a waste, she thought, such a waste.

Savich decided not to tell them about MacLean’s disease. He knew it wouldn’t matter. It would mean less than nothing to them. He said, knowing it was a very risky roll of the dice, “Mr. Barbeau, I have read your statement to the authorities about the day your son drowned after saving you. After some dithering, it was determined to be a tragic accident. However”—he paused for effect—“however, I know that is not the truth. Please tell me what really happened that day.”

Pierre grew very still, and Savich thought, Bingo! He’d known to his gut that something else was going on here. He waited, silent, patient.

When Estelle would have spoken, Pierre raised his hand to quiet her, shrugged, and said, “Why does it matter now? I say it no longer matters at all, nothing matters now that he is dead. Why not? I will tell you all of it.”

Estelle stared at her husband. “What are you planning? No. Pierre?”

“I’m sorry, Estelle, but I knew it would come out eventually. And now, I’m tired, very tired, you see.” He held up his hand to his wife once again and repeated, “It does not matter, Estelle. Agent Savich, Jean David did not die an accidental death.”

Savich said, his heart racing at a fine clip, “Tell us what happened, sir.”

Pierre raised his head, his face leached of color, but surprisingly, his voice was strong and steady. “My son came to me, told me what he’d done, asked me to help him. He knew, you see, knew his superiors would figure out soon enough he was the one responsible. I could not believe it. He gave me the details, convinced me. I told him I had to think about it.